“What are you doing tonight?” Corey asks without preamble. I sigh and shift my phone to my other ear so I can roll back into the same position I always sleep in, curled up on my left side.

“Nothing. Are you surprised?” I say dully.

“Not really. Listen, Susan Baxter is having a party tonight,” he continues. I yank the blankets up over my head.

“I hate Susan Baxter. She sexually assaulted me when we were five. You know this, so why are you asking me to go to her party?” I ask.

“She didn’t sexually assault you, you drama queen. She kissed you. It’s not like it even counts.”

“The next time I see you, I’m going to do to you exactly what she did to me, and then you can try to tell me that it doesn’t count,” I say. I’m in my now typical pissy mood, and the last thing I need tonight is to go to a party.

“That’s completely different. For one thing, we’re seventeen now, not five. And for another, I don’t like guys.”

“I don’t like girls.”

“Dude, I didn’t like girls when I was in kindergarten either. Five-year-olds are like, asexual. But that’s really not the issue. You haven’t really hung out with anyone since… you know. We miss you, man. It’s not healthy for you to be such a hermit all of a sudden,” he says. I feel a twinge of guilt at his words, and decide not to point out that I hung out with Ben, Alex, Jeremy, and Mason last week, since I doubt it’ll help my case much. I peek out from under the blankets to check the time. Eight o’clock. It couldn’t hurt to go out tonight. I could be back by ten, if I really wanted, and then I could count that as my social interaction for the month. But my bed is warm and comforting, and high school parties are pretty much boring as shit when you can’t get drunk because alcohol counteracts your antidepressants.

“I’m really not up to it tonight. But we’ll hang out sometime this week, for sure, for February break,” I hedge.

“And what better way to kick off February vacation than a party?” Corey says, but I can already tell that he’s going to let me off the hook. I can relax.

“I don’t consider vacation started until I’m actively sitting on my ass on a school day. Talk to me on Monday or Tuesday and then we’ll kick off vacation,” I say. He snorts.

“Yeah, Trav, because you’re exactly who I wanted to spend my Valentine’s Day with,” he says. I bury my head under the pillow, only taking the phone with me as a second thought.

“Christ. Valentine’s Day. Am I pathetic for wishing I’d gotten more time to deal with all this shit before this stupid fucking Hallmark bullshit holiday came around?” I grumble.

“You’re not pathetic. But think of it this way. After next week, you can just be done thinking about him. You don’t have to have some random day reminding you of him in any of the months looming towards you or whatever,” Corey points out. I unearth myself from the mess of pillows and blankets, and sit up.

“He turns eighteen next month. Month after that is his prom, which we both know he would’ve somehow convinced me to go to with him. Month after that, he would’ve graduated. Also, did you honestly just use the word ‘looming’ in casual conversation? Who does that?”

“I do, apparently. But come on. At this point, you’re just coming up with excuses to think about him for the rest of your life. I mean, yeah, okay, you’re going to feel like shit on his birthday, because wherever the fuck he is, he’s still turning eighteen. But prom, graduation, all that shit… it’s not like he has a monopoly on the date. Especially considering he won’t be attending either,” he says. I stand up and stretch before heading over to my computer to check my email, which is of course empty.

“I know. I’ve been thinking about that lately—”

“Of course you have.”

“Bite me. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about that. If he’s really gone…” Please, God, don’t let him be gone anymore. “I mean, he can’t graduate with the credits he has. He’s missing everything after exams, so he’s a full semester short. It’s kind of fucked to think of him as a high school drop-out, you know?”

“I like how that’s what you choose to focus on. The guy is completely AWOL, without the slightest hint to where he is, and you’re worried about his studies? Do you honestly work at being this much of a nerd? Forget it, I already know the answer.”

“Did you seriously call me just to make fun of me when you know I’m in a bad mood?” I demand. He snorts.

“You’ve been in a bad mood since the day I met you,” he says. “And no, actually, I called you to invite you to a party, but you turned me down, you antisocial little twat.”

“Hang up, Cor,” I say.

“Really, Travis, at least try to do something social this week?”

“Corey, I’m serious. I’m not in the mood to do anything tonight. And I’m not going to promise to be in a better mood later. I don’t want to go to a party just so everybody can call me a faggot and a freak, and I don’t want to hang out with Faye and Miles, since they’re both just going to tell me how justified Bill was in kicking my boyfriend out. So unless you can somehow make it possible for me to be around people without having to be social, be happy, or be sane, I’m probably going to just spend this entire week right where I am now. At home.”

There. I said it. Never mind the fact that Corey probably already knew everything I was going to say; it feels good to actually just get it out there regardless. He’s quiet for almost a minute before I finally get any sort of reply.

“Five, five, five, eight, four, six, three,” he says finally. There is that telltale pause after the first three digits, the same pause everyone uses when they say a phone number. Problem is, I don’t recognize the number.

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“I copied it off your arm that Monday during your study period. You were pretty out of it, and I figured you might need it at some point. I think he’s the closest you’re gonna get to being around someone without having to be social or happy or sane, so… five, five, five, eight, four, six, three,” he repeats. I don’t have a pen near me, so I type the numbers into a blank email window.

“Yeah,” I say before disconnecting. The call is over for about ten seconds before I’m dialing in the new number. He picks up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Um… it’s Travis,” I say awkwardly. Shit. Why didn’t I stop to think about what I would actually say before I called?

“Travis,” he echoes, obviously surprised. “Hey. I figured you lost my number by now.”

Figured as in hoped, most likely. Big shock. If I were him, I’d hope for that too. I don’t want to irritate him any further by admitting that Corey gave me the number, so, of course, I lie. “No, um, I still had it.”

“Oh. So, what’d you call for?” he asks.

“No reason,” I say, as casually as I can manage. “I just wanted to say uh… say hi and stuff.”

“Travis? You’re really shitty at this ‘play it cool’ thing. Just so you’re like, aware of that.”

Ugh. Fuck it.

“My best friend, Corey, told me I’ve been really distant lately, and that all my friends are worried about me because of it. I guess they think I’m going to have a repeat of freshman year or whatever.” Did I really just say that out loud? “I’m not, but I thought I should maybe do something social just to prove to everybody that I’m not completely insane. Only the problem with that is that I’m actually really, really close to losing my mind, and you’re the only person who I think I can stand being around right now, because you’re the only sort-of-friend I have who doesn’t expect me to be Shiny Happy Travis all the time, since you’re the only sort-of-friend I have who doesn’t actually really like me all that much.”

There is a very pronounced pause, and then he laughs.

“I never said I didn’t like you, Travis,” he says.

“Well, you imply it a lot,” I argue. He snorts.

“When?”

“The… the day in the hall. When you told me about, you know, you and him sleeping together.”

“What, you mean the day I had my hand down your pants?”

There’s another brief silence.

“Yeah, that one.”

“You’re a freak, Travis. You really, honestly are,” he says. I open my mouth to tell him to fuck off and forget I ever called, but he speaks before I can. “You should come over. I’m in the middle of doing something, or I’d offer to come there. But you can help me, or watch, or bug the shit out of me, or whatever. My house is only ten minutes away from yours. Fifteen Emerson Circle.”

I know the street. It’s close enough that I can walk with no problem even now, when there’s still snow on the ground. “Okay. I’ll leave soon. If, you know, you’re sure you’re not too busy and stuff.”

“Like you give a shit whether I’m busy or not. You’re just worried that I’m only inviting you over because I don’t wanna be responsible if you kill yourself,” he says. How the fuck can he read me this well? It’s starting to get obnoxious.

“This is true,” I admit.

“I wouldn’t have invited you over unless I wanted you to come over. Just, when you get here? Don’t go up the walk to the house, just come around the back to the sliding glass door. I live downstairs, everybody else is up on the main floor or second floor. You don’t have to knock either, I’ll leave it unlocked.”

“Okay. I’ll see you soon, then,” I say. I hang up, wondering how the hell I went from burying myself alive under all my blankets to actually having plans in the course of fifteen minutes. Who is actually running my life, anyway?

It only takes me twenty-five minutes to walk to Ben’s house, but I stand in the driveway for at least another five, trying to convince myself that it’s not weird to sneak around the back of some guy’s house and let myself in. Eventually, I realize it’s even weirder to spend an unnecessary amount of time leaning against the basketball pole in his front yard in the dark. I make my way around to the back of the house and push open the sliding door. It leads into some kind of rec room, but a door on the adjacent wall is open, letting faint music seep out to greet me. I knock on the door frame before I enter.

Like Garen’s room back at the house—the room I’ve refused to go in since the night he left, after I managed to pick myself up off the floor hours after he had peeled out of the driveway—Ben’s bedroom is almost dripping in personality. The real shock is the personality it’s dripping in. I half-expected his room to be covered in posters of emo bands, plastered in pictures of his friends from Musical Theory, and mostly buried under piles of black clothing and band t-shirts. It’s almost the exact opposite. The room itself is somewhat small, with dark blue walls and polished wood floors. A queen-sized bed is pushed up into the far corner, where it takes up at least a quarter of the room. There is a normal desk, a normal dresser, a normal nightstand, a normal stereo. The thing that really shocks me is the wall opposite his bed, which is crammed with shelf upon shelf of books. Some of the books are newer ones that appear to only have been read once, some are modern novels with worn spines from repeated openings, and some are cracked old volumes that are almost falling apart with age. There can’t be less than a hundred books against that one wall.

“Wow,” I murmur. I see a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye, and only then do I realize that Ben is sitting on his bed, sprawled back across the pillows. He’s surrounded by books as well, most of which look like encyclopedias and reference textbooks, and has a legal pad perched on his knee and a pen in his hand. When I finally get around to meeting his eyes, he smiles slightly and reaches up to remove a pair of glasses with dark red rectangular plastic frames.

“Hi. Took you long enough to get here,” he says.

“Sorry. It takes a while to walk. I don’t drive,” I say. He frowns.

“I thought you were seventeen,” he says. I shrug.

“I am. I just don’t drive,” I say. He shifts a few of the encyclopedias around to make room for me on the bed, and I sit.

“Do you want something to drink? I can make you some coffee, or something. You’ve gotta be freezing after walking over here,” he says. I shake my head.

“No, I’m fine. I don’t drink coffee much, anyway. My psychiatrist says I should avoid having too much caffeine because of my medication,” I say. I have no idea why I keep saying stuff like this to him. Repeat of freshman year, my psychiatrist, medication. I don’t talk about this stuff, ever. He opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off with a gesture to the books scattered all over the bed. “What are you doing?”

“Researching,” he says, tipping his notepad towards me so I can see that the page is almost full of neat, tiny writing. I flip open the book nearest to me and read the title page. It’s a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

“Is this for your English class?” I ask. He shakes his head.

“A few months ago, I submitted some story to an art festival. When I won, the guy giving me the award said that reading my story ‘was like reading a Lewis Carroll novel that featured interjections from Oscar Wilde.’ I’ve studied both of them, so I think I understand what he was saying, but I’m just doing a little research now to make sure,” he says. I reach over him to pick up another book, The Picture of Dorian Gray.

“So, what was he saying?” I ask. He snorts.

“That I’m a flaming homosexual with a penchant for writing caustic, drug-induced children’s stories,” he says. “As far as literary compliments go, I guess I could’ve done worse. But I’d rather he hadn’t compared me to a guy who may or may not have been a pedophile.”

“Do you write a lot?” I ask. I see him tense slightly as I reach for his notebook and flip through the pages without really reading anything. He doesn’t relax again until I hand it back.

“I guess you could say that. Now, do you wanna tell me the real reason you wanted to see me tonight?” he asks. I blink at him.

“I already told you. Corey said I should get out more, but I didn’t want to go to a party or something big like that,” I say. Ben sinks back onto the mess of pillows behind him and tosses his notebook on the floor.

“Do you have something against parties?” he asks. Of course not. The last party I went to, I hooked up with my ex-fiancé while he was dressed like a raccoon. I love parties.

“No, I just didn’t feel like going to one tonight,” I say.

“Will you feel like going to one next Tuesday?”

“I won’t know that until next Tuesday,” I say, and then I freeze as something clicks in my memory. “Wait, you mean Valentine’s Day?” He nods. What the fuck? He cannot be asking me out. He cannot be doing that right now. If he is, I’m going to punch him in the face.

“Every year, Alex throws a ‘Love Sucks’ party at his house. Sort of the anti-Valentine’s Day party, I guess. It’s usually between fifteen and thirty people, all of whom are single and therefore have no other plans for the day. I figured you would think the theme was fitting right now. So if you don’t have anything better to do, maybe you could stop by,” he says. I let my breath out slowly, trying not to drown him in my relief. I really hadn’t wanted to have to punch him.

“Maybe, yeah. What time?” I ask.

“It starts around seven thirty, and ends whenever you feel like leaving. A lot of us just crash at his place and head home sometime the next day. But if you wanted to leave that night, I could always give you a ride, since you don’t drive,” he says. I want to make myself agree to go, but the threat of another night like how tonight started keeps me silent. I can’t make promises that I can’t keep. I can’t swear to him that I’ll go if there’s a chance I’ll spend next Tuesday curled up in bed just like I have been so much lately. Instead of nodding, I shrug.